


lend me your eyes and i'll change what you see

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Grantaire, M/M, Trains, meeting on the train, strangers share kisses, trains are wonderful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:31:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He loves the rhythmical buzzing of the train combined with the tapping of the raindrops on the foggy window. The landscapes outside are restless, they change as fast as the passengers who come and go through the doors.</p><p>And then he sees him, and it’s like all the oxygen has been shut out of the closing doors, he doesn’t know how to breathe anymore, because he can’t be real, he can’t be so defined and untouched and distanced from all the grey shadows in the wagon. He sees him and he knows that these features must be engraved on paper, even if that means that he'll miss his stop. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lend me your eyes and i'll change what you see

**Author's Note:**

> This stupid thing had been stuck in my mind for months, I adore trains, I love reading and writing with the rhythmical sound and the changing landscapes outside the windows so I'm sorry if this is stupid, but I needed so bad to write this so yeah... my apologies.  
> I appreciate criticism so much! I'd love to know your opinions!

It’s the part of his day he loves the most, the train. He appreciates the routine and the safety it gives him, yet somewhere in them there is the freedom he doesn’t know he needs, hidden somewhere between the same faces, the same platforms, the same signs with the names of the station on the greasy piles of the walls, some days washed in sunlight and some others grey, clouded, dark and suffocating between the fading posters of cabaret or theatre shows. It’s the freedom of being able to grab a backpack and run away without knowing the actual destination, it’s the freedom of watching people come and go as a mere outsider, protected by the crowd which doesn’t care for what is in your mind.

 

Sometimes when his sleazy apartment seems to be mocking him alongside with everything else, when the tacky, cheap, mosaic floor is frozen against his bare feat and only cold water is pouring from the faucet, when the coffee machine seems to hate him and the walls are peeling only to add to the decadent image of the old pizza boxes and beer bottles scattered all around the floor, when his pencils and colors seem to deceive him, he grabs a bottle and spends his day on a platform, watching the people who walk quickly, trapped in the world of their earphones. He sits cross-legged with his scruffy old boots and green flannel shirt, wild dark curls peeking out of his beanie, sketchpad on his lap, cheeks unshaven and raw. Many times they’ve taken him for homeless, it’s not a rare occurrence to spot them sleeping in platforms, wrapped in worn blankets, long beards and holes in their dirty clothes, hiding pride and wisdom many accomplished businessmen would be jealous off. He doesn’t mind. He feels more at ease with them, their drunken laughter, the way they philosophize the world which has abandoned them. Sometimes while they sleep he makes their portrait and leaves it by their side to find it when they wake up. He never stays to watch their expression from a corner. He doesn’t know if it is because he feels like an intruder or because he’s a coward.

 

Some other times he takes the train and doesn’t get off on his stop, but continues until the terminal station. The time is enough for him to finish his beer and watch outside the window, put his thoughts in order or hopefully drift in complete oblivion, with the help of the rhythmical vibration of the wheels against the railway. In the night he presses his forehead on the cold window and watches the raindrops which filthily make love to the glass until they meet with one another and perish.

 

Every morning he watches people come and go through the doors of the wagon. Every sound is muted from the nostalgic, seductive sounds of saxophone and jazz which are filling his head through his earphones, but he doesn’t need to hear anything. It’s enough to watch their steel eyes as they watch outside the window, narrow or almond, with dark circles underneath or surrounded by black eyeliner and perfectly applied mascara, blue and green and black, it’s enough to see their hair and wonder about the story behind it: what does this retro ‘50s hat say for the girl in the houndstooth skirt and the strap heels? What’s the story behind those blue tufts on that man’s hair, and did that businessman’s hair deserve to grey? Is he a complete asshole who fucks his secretary or does he have children which he takes in the province on the Sundays and laughs with them?

 

He doesn’t get up when an old lady enters the wagon. That says something, doesn’t it?

 

He draws the woman with the dark skin and the wrinkles on her forehead, wondering if there’s a reason behind their existence. She doesn’t notice.

 

When people notice him they don’t like the fact that their features are captured on paper. Most of the time they ask him to stop, his sarcastic smile when he raises his head and the lazy shrug of his shoulders, as well as the vibrant, colorful tattoos covering his arms, visible when his sleeves are raised, don’t help the situation at all.

 

That morning it’s raining and he swears under his breath for forgetting his umbrella. He still has his beanie and khaki parka, but it’s too thin to keep the late October chill out. He rushes under the platform, wishing he had more coins in his pocket to afford cigarettes or a steamy, black coffee. He doesn’t turn his iPod on, not today. Despite the fact that he’s soaked to the bone, wet locks sticking on his scalp, he appreciates the rain. It’s not only that it suits his mood; it also helps him out of his usual numbness, it makes him feel more alive and free under the cold water, with the rhythmical tapping on the windows and ground than he could ever do under the sun which finds amusement in mocking him.

 

He curls on a seat, resting his boots on the plastic edge, pulling his sketchbook out of his pocket. Some of the pages are damp and he curses under his breath but his pencil can still find some clear surface of recycled paper. The rain is growing fiercer, the sounds make his ears vibrate as he rests his head on the window.

 

His blue eyes search around the wagon for someone he can sketch. There is a man with chocolate skin and rasta braids, full lips and melancholic eyes. There is a tired mother with two screaming babies on her lap; she once had a beauty which has not completely faded. And before he knows it, the announcement for the next stop is heard and the sounds of the train fade out, replaced by the sound of the opening doors. It seems like the ones inside are afraid to go out to the rain so they postpone their getting off. People enter the wagon, hair and coats dripping on the floor, rubber or leather boots squeaking against it, they close their umbrellas, grey, plaid, faded, one with Spiderman on it, and they take off their gloves, revealing elegant fingers, old and callused ones, black and purple faded nail varnishes and wedding rings.

 

And then he sees him, and it’s like all the oxygen has been shut out of the closing doors, he doesn’t know how to breathe anymore, because he can’t be real, he can’t be so defined and untouched and distanced from all the grey shadows in the wagon. He’s wearing a red jacket and matching sneakers under his tight black jeans, and his face is that of a Greek God or an angel, glowing even in the dull, misty darkness of the morning train. His youthful skin is pale and glowing, his eyes burning with a fire which sends a pleasant warmth inside him, his parted, red lips cause his heart to race, he wonders how they’d feel pressed on his own, how they would taste. Maybe of morning coffee, he imagines the man walking underneath the black umbrella he’s just closed and placed between his knees, buying a dark coffee from a small coffee shop and brining the paper cup on his lips, he imagines the strong scent of the coffee embracing the scent of those soft, golden curls surrounding his face –how would they smell? Of rain and some natural shampoo, maybe coconut or flowers...

 

Or maybe those lips taste of toothpaste, but no orange juice, he’s not the man who’d drink orange juice right after brushing his teeth…

 

This is madness, complete and utter madness. He doesn’t even know the man’s name and he’ll never get to meet him. He probably already has a girlfriend, or maybe a boyfriend. A beautiful, accomplished man, not one who lives in a mouse hole and gets pissed drunk every night.

 

But he needs to draw him, he needs to capture those precious features as the man finds a seat opposite him, he needs to hurry and entrap his beauty, the passion in his glance on the paper, if that’s possible in any way.

 

He grabs his pencil and starts drawing, occasionally raising his eyes to be lost in the little details, every shadow, the shape of his chin, the long eyelashes, the smooth curve of his throat and the hollow above his collarbone, where pale skin meets with the shirt. The pencil is scratching the paper orgasmically and soon he realizes that his palm is clammy despite the chill in the wagon, his fingers smudged and his breathing agonized. He raises his head and for an instant their eyes meet. The man’s glance is captivating and his hand goes limp for a while, his pencil falling on the sketchpad. And then the blond man gets up, fixing his leather backpack in place and preparing his umbrella, and when the doors open, he walks outside and disappears.

 

He trails his tongue over his dry, chapped lips and lowers his eyes on his sketchpad. The man is staring back at him in the grey tones of his pencil. He has never felt more satisfied with his art in the past.

 

He realizes he has long ago missed his stop. Sighing slowly, he puts the sketchpad in his pocket and, wrapping his parka tightly around him, he walks out of the train ready to be soaked to the bone.

_____________________________________________________________________

No matter how hard he tries to get him out of his mind, his heart rate grows faster every time he hears the sound of the opening doors the next day, only to expand his disappointment when the blond man doesn’t appear.

 

Another day passes, then another. He decides that he’ll never see him again, a thought which shouldn’t affect him in any way. His eyes never earned the privilege to rest upon such perfection, so how dare he feel betrayed, why do his friends notice that he has been drinking even more lately?

 

It’s a cloudy morning of November and he’s listening to jazz music through his earphones, his fingers with the bitten nails keeping the rhythm on the plastic part of his seat, when the doors open and the cold wind which enters the wagon brings the man with it. He had almost forgotten how intoxicating a sight he was, an oasis of warmth reflected from that golden halo, messy from the wild wind, his red jacket contrasting with the grey suits and the brown jackets around him, his nose and pale cheeks painted with rosy spots from the cold.

 

He finds a seat opposite him and their eyes meet instantly before he takes a book out of his backpack and disappears behind it. His heart is hammering in his chest as he takes his sketchpad out and starts drawing. He can take a glimpse of the man’s eyes as he lowers the book, his expression frowned slightly with concentration, a faint wrinkle on his forehead. He smirks sarcastically at the title of the book because who reads _the Social Contract_ in his morning train? Certainly not someone who is not extremely interested in philosophy and politics. He might be studying something connected to those. He bitterly notes that his clothes seem quite expensive, unlike his own, patched jeans and two size-bigger shirt. He starts thinking hundreds of reasons for which he fundamentally disagrees with Rousseau, wondering how a conversation between them would go.

 

The sight of the man is captivating in such a way that he suddenly feels the urge to tease him, to challenge his defenses, he is a second away from catching his attention concerning the book but he immediately regrets it, realizing that he doesn’t have the right to interrupt him.

 

Then, he notices the man’s warm eyes from behind the book. He’s staring at _him,_ at his own hands which are drawing him, his heartbeat starts racing again, the man lowers his book and something in his expression indicates… something shows hesitance, bewilderment.

 

He can almost feel the man learning forward, his warm breath brushing against his face, and the voice… how does that voice sound? “What are you drawing?”

 

He’ll never get to know how his voice sounds, the man’s stop is here and he wraps his red jacket around his body before standing up and walking out of the open doors.

 

The man with the angelic face takes the train several times throughout the following days. Their eyes never meet again. He feels like something is over before it even began. For a couple of days he feels like staying home, curled on the mattress, nursing a bottle of whiskey and trying to draw when his fingers and pencils refuse to cooperate. Eventually he returns to his train, this time riding alone until the terminal, his blue eyes fixed on the rapid, restless landscapes outside the window.

 

The man gets on the train on an unusually sunny, winter morning. He’s wearing a red woolen jumper under an elegant black coat. When he sees him, his breath catches on his throat and he hides behind a tall middle aged man. The man doesn’t notice him when he slides beside him, hiding his face carefully and silently leaves a piece of paper on the seat next to him.

 

The metallic voice announcing the name of the station is herd, shortly followed by the sound of the opening doors. With his heart on his throat he jumps off the train, his boots thumping heavily on the platform. He starts walking away quickly, his hands in the pockets of his green hoodie, earphones in his ears with the music actually paused, trying to steady his heartbeat as he walks. He doesn’t look back, he doesn’t dare.

 

It’s over, he knows it’s over, nothing will ever change apart from this because it has ended, but why does his heart keep pounding against his ribcage at the rhythm with which his boots meet with the greasy piles of the platform? Why do more steps come to meet with his own, steps faster, fiercer, somehow more passionate.

 

 He’s dreaming, he knows he is, this is completely surreal, only the solid walls of the station and the rails around them indicates that it must be true.

 

The sound of someone following him becomes clearer, closer. He can hear the ragged breathing behind him and for some reason his own breath grows faster, as if he’s the one who’s been running. He’s dreaming but he doesn’t want the dream to end, so he shuts his eyes and keeps walking.

 

The steps are now closer, one moment he can hear every different mismatched breath, and the next moment he can feel them brushing on the nape of his neck, causing the short, dark hair to stand up.

 

And then he feels a tight grip on his arm and he turns around deliberately, his eyes first meet with a pair of red sneakers on the piles. He raises them slowly, savoring every molecule of oxygen shared between them, a black coat, a fiery red jumper rising and falling quickly, a wild mess of golden curls and cherry lips, slightly parted as the man is trying to catch his breath. His eyes are glowing with a fire which fills him from his chest to his toes and he is unable to believe this is happening but if this is a dream, then he’s willing to sleep forever in order for it to never stop.

 

The man’s other hand rises and his insides clench uncomfortably when he notices what he’s holding between his fingers. He’s showing him the sketch he drew that day, the piece of paper he sneakily left near his seat, and suddenly all he feels like doing is run away. His cheeks are burning and his tongue is knotted, the silence is so harsh that he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears, but just then it meets with the beautiful man’s erratic one, because their bodies are pressed together and soft hands cup his rough cheeks and their lips meet on a slow, burning kiss which tastes faintly of coffee, the same coffee he had imagined, and before he manages to take a breath and try to realize what’s happening, the man pulls back looking gloriously flushed, like a teenage boy, and turns around, quickly walking away, his black coat swishing behind him.

 

He stands there, his blue eyes filled with shock and he trails his tongue over his lips, still tasting those red ones as people walk quickly past him and he hears the train he should get on as it arrives on the platform.

 

He continues to stand there, staring at the same direction. People give him strange looks but he stands there.

 

He hears the train taking off. He has missed it.

 

A blissful smile slowly takes over his dark features.

 

Because something has started before it managed to end.


End file.
